


A Witcher in Peril and a Bard gone Feral

by byronicmusings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt just wants some ale, Jaskier just wants to thrOW SOME HANDS, Loving Husbands, M/M, Meanwhile, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and also some peace, because he deserves nice things, the townsfolk are nice to geralt in this one, two bros chilling in a bath NOT five feet apart cause theyre g-, yeah i know its supposed to be feral jaskier but it gets kinda soft later on??, you know the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmusings/pseuds/byronicmusings
Summary: 'I can take care of myself perfectly fine, Geralt. This isn’t the first time I've been in a fight, or got hurt, or saved you from certain peril-'Geralt raises his brow in disbelief. 'Peril?That was hardly -''There were four armed mercenaries who were intent on spilling your blood,darling. Luckily for you I was there to get rid of them, all under a minute, myself unarmed, while you very helpfully sat there in the corner with your ale.’~Geralt is tired from a vampire hunt and just wants to drink his ale in peace. Some mercenaries decide to pick a fight with him and well… let’s just say that things don’t go very well for them, thanks to a certain bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 564





	A Witcher in Peril and a Bard gone Feral

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for the vibe in that b99 scene where Gina is dancing with her headphones on in the foreground, completely oblivious to the chaos happening at the back, except this time its Geralt tiredly drinking his ale in some dark corner of a tavern while Jaskier wrecks havoc and beats the shit out of idiots trying to start a fight with the witcher. I dont know if i succeeded (probably not) buT I tried!!

They had been in this town for about a week now, hired to look into a series of disappearing townsfolk, which after much investigation turned out to be the work of a _katakan_ \- an intelligent vampire species. Geralt had plopped the decapitated head of the creature on the alderman’s table this afternoon, splattered in blood and gore, but the poor man didn’t seem to care, and instead grasped his hand in heartfelt appreciation, relief pouring from his voice. ‘Thank you, master witcher, truly. This monster had been tormenting us for so long - you are a savior of our town.’ Geralt gave a curt nod and collected his coin. 

‘Say,’ Jaskier starts, walking alongside Geralt as they head to the tavern. ‘The alderman must have been really desperate to get rid of the creature, for him to clasp your hand like that. He didn’t even care about the blood staining his hands! Or his papers, for that matter. Did you see the piles and piles of paperwork stacked around his table?’ Jaskier shudders. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I think he was one of the more pleasant people you’ve worked for - treats you with respect, provides useful and accurate information, doesn’t try to haggle or cheat you of pay, appreciates your help,’ Jaskier counts off his fingers. ‘It’s all basic courtesy honestly, but the amount of people who don’t have it are downright staggering. It’s preposterous! Seriously Geralt, how do you even deal with it?’

‘Hmm,’ Geralt says, mildly amused by Jaskier’s outburst. ‘You get used to it.’

‘Unbelievable!’ Jaskier shakes his head. ‘At least the townsfolk here are friendly. It’s a nice change.’

‘It is,’ Geralt agrees, and nods in acknowledgement as villagers greet him in passing.

They enter the inn, a reputable three storey establishment in the middle of town. They step through the creaky door and a blanket of silence immediately falls over the tavern as people turn to look at them. The quiet is broken just as quickly, when a stocky man stands up abruptly, mug raised in the air. 

‘To the witcher!’ He cries. 

‘To the witcher!’ A chorus of voices repeat, and there is the sound of cheering. 

Geralt grimaces as he weaves through the horde of excited villagers, shouting their thanks for eliminating the monster, some even giving him a pat on the back. Jaskier, flamboyant as he is, basks in the attention, waving and acknowledging the people in Geralt’s stead. Geralt tunes out the noise as he stalks over to their usual spot in the darker corner, the only empty table in the bustling tavern.

They barely sit down when the innkeeper appears, carrying a tray of food and drink. ‘Hello boys,’ she smiles, placing two tankards of ale down. ‘This one’s on the house, for slaying the monster.’ She winks. Geralt grunts his thanks. 

‘Thank you, darling.’ Jaskier says, flashes one of his charming smiles. He takes a sip of his ale, glances around. ‘Full house today?’

‘Uh huh,’ She places a full platter of cheese and meat on the table, two bowls of stew. 'A couple o' villagers saw you approaching town with the monster's head - ran around telling everyone 'bout it. Townsfolk finally feel it's safe enough to venture about and flocked here to celebrate, I reckon.' 

'Those men - I've not seen them around before.' Geralt says, over the rim of his mug. He jerks his head towards a table in the centre where four men are currently seated. Not simple townsfolk, judging from tense shoulders and the crude weapons hanging from their waists, but not proper soldiers either. They've been sending hostile glances this way ever since the both of them walked in, and Geralt can sense a bitter miasma of disdain and hatred emanating from them.

The innkeeper glances over before turning away swiftly. She chuckles nervously, lowers her voice. ‘Mercenaries. Baron hired them to do his _dirty work_. They come here occasionally, when they’re not busy killing or raping or pillaging.’ Disdain creeps into her voice. ‘Not better than a bunch o’ common cut-throats and thieves, really. Tis a shame they aren’t, otherwise the townsfolk would’ve banded together and beat their arses long ago. The people here hate them, but attacking them would get us into trouble with the Baron. They know it, so they parade around like they own the place.’ She sighs. ‘They wanted this table, but I knew you two would be coming in today, so I insisted that it was taken. They weren’t too happy about it.’ 

‘Oh! That’s really nice of you, love, you didn’t have to.’ Jaskier says, surprised. ‘Believe me when I say that this town has been the most pleasant to us. Not many people go this far when it comes to service - at least not in the years we’ve been travelling together.’ 

‘Did they give you any trouble?’ Geralt cuts in, eyes narrowing at the group of men. One of them senses his gaze and glances up. The two of them lock eyes for several tense moments, before the man whispers something to his comrades and looks away. _Trouble’s brewing._ He can sense it.

She laughs, light and cheerful. ‘Bah! Nothing I couldn’t handle. No need to fret over me, boys!’ A conspiratorial glint in her eyes. ‘Better to keep them in the center, surrounded by eyes and ears. Don’t want ‘em feelin’ too comfortable in my tavern!’ Geralt nods, understanding. A customer a few tables over calls for more ale. ‘Shout if you need anything,’ she says with a smile, and turns away, skirts swishing. 

‘She’s a nice lass,’ Jaskier comments, digging into his food. He pops a slice of beef from the stew into his mouth, and his eyes light up in delight. ‘Mmm, and a really good cook too! This is delicious Geralt, try it.’ 

Geralt does as he is told, delving into his food, and Jaskier launches into the outline of his new ballad, an embellished (and mostly false) recount of the whole vampire affair. Geralt had forbade Jaskier from tagging along, much to the disappointment of the bard, who grumbled about not having seen a vampire with his own eyes. He had to rely on Geralt’s terse report and his own imagination for most of the details, which Geralt thought bordered on ridiculous.

~

‘I’ve suffered through enough boring drowner contracts and revolting ghoul infestations! Years of travelling together we’ve not met a vampire, and when we finally meet one, I can’t tag along?’ Jaskier paced along the stretch of windows, gesturing wildly in agitation. 

They were in their room - _one of the best_ , the innkeeper had said, and she was true to her word. It was spacious and nicely decorated in warm colours, the highlight in Geralt’s opinion being the huge poster bed in the middle of the room, piled generously with plush cushions and thick furs. It was what he was currently sprawled on, eyes closed, hands positioned behind his head for support, as Jaskier prattled on.

‘I’ve heard stories, you know,’ he continued. ‘Stories of dashing vampires - tall, dark and handsome aristocrats, impossibly strong, dressed in the finest silks of black and a cloak as dark as the night. I’m a bard, Geralt. This is a one in a lifetime opportunity! Getting close and seeing a vampire with my own eyes, imagine the ballads I could write!’

‘Won’t be able to write ballads if you’re lying dead on the floor, with all the blood sucked out of you.’ 

Jaskier gave a disgruntled noise. ‘Gah! Do you always have to be like this?’

Geralt opened an eye to peer at Jaskier. ‘Like what, exactly?’ 

‘So… morbid.’ 

‘I'm a witcher. Morbid is what I do.’ 

'... Can I really not go?' 

'No.' 

Jaskier flopped onto the sofa and gave an exaggerated groan. He looked genuinely crestfallen, but Geralt just could not risk it. A fight with a katakan could go wrong very easily. 

Tracking the katakan was already difficult - he’d spent the better part of the week trying to locate the bodies, wading through muddy swamps and filthy sewers, tracking faded prints deep into the forest. The creature was certainly intelligent, considering the lengths it went to to avoid being caught, and by the time Geralt located its lair and tracked it to an abandoned warehouse, it had already taken two more victims. 

Exhausted as he was, he came well prepared for the fight - the deadly combination of Geralt’s silver sword, a black blood potion and moon dust proved too much even for the vampire, although it did manage to land a few minor hits on Geralt. 

He'd collected his trophy and shoved the head of the bat-like creature in Jaskier's face, gore still dripping off its severed neck, bloodied fangs visible in a menacing snarl. 

'Here's your dashing aristocrat,' he said. 

Jaskier shrieked and fell on his ass. 

~

That wasn't enough to stop Jaskier from conveniently ignoring facts and replacing reality with exaggerated myths of garlic and heroics and a stake through the heart, apparently. Geralt had decided against correcting Jaskier or commenting on the other details grossly exaggerated in his favour, as he knew how stubborn Jaskier was when it came to things like these. He didn’t think he had the energy to, anyway. His muscles were sore and he was sure that bits of vampire gut somehow managed to find their way under his armour. He was tired from the whole affair, so to speak, and was very much looking forward to having a nice warm bath after this. 

Halfway through Jaskier stands up to get more ale, sliding to the counter with his empty mug, chatting up the barmaid. Geralt’s eyes roam the tavern in a once-over, settling on the group of men, who have been not so subtly throwing insults his way with steadily increasing voices. Their leader - _Rowan_ , if he’d heard correctly - makes eye contact, and he calls out.

‘Hey butcher!’ Rowan taunts, snickering. His voice is loud, carrying over the dozen conversations in the tavern. It catches the attention of the patrons sitting around him. ‘We’ve run out of meat. How about you go cut us some more?’ The table of men burst out laughing, crude and callous. 

Geralt lifts his mug to drink, feeling a flash of irritation. _Damn mercenaries, always picking a fight._ He briefly entertains the idea of just ignoring them, but something tells him that it would end in a fight either way. 

'Sure,' he says, eyeing the men. ‘Which one of you wants to volunteer?’ 

The laughter dies down abruptly, the sudden silence loud in the large tavern. 'Tis’ true then? That witchers _eat_ humans? Steal little un’s from their houses at night, skin and boil them by day?' 

‘Ever consider a career change? Imagination like that, you’d be a good storyteller.’ 

'Telling jokes now, are we?’ Rowan sneers. He approaches Geralt, flanked by the other mercenaries. They crowd round his table in the corner, invading his personal space. Hands rest lightly on weapons, threatening. 

'If it's a fight you want, you're not having it.' Geralt states calmly, exuding an air of disinterest. He spots Jaskier in the background, quietly shuffling around for something.

Rowan leans into his face, eyes wide in mock surprise. 'Oh? The _mighty witcher_ , _scared_ of a fight?'

Geralt gives a harsh laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.' 

Rowan takes offense, reaching for his sword. 'You son of a -’, he hisses, but before he can finish Jaskier appears, fury in his face, eyes burning with rage. He _slams_ a chair into one of his men with all his strength, knocking him to the floor with a resounding crack. _Damn, Geralt thinks, impressed. He eyes the splinters of wood. That must have broken his skull._

The three men whirl around in shock, drawing their weapons, but Jaskier is faster, already hurling himself at the next man with a furious shout. Jaskier yanks the axe out of his hands as they fall to the ground in a loud thud, clattering away noisily as he rains a series of rapid punches to the henchmen’s head. Jaskier rolls away just as Rowan approaches from behind, swinging his sword in a downward arc, and there is a gasp of pain and shock as he pierces his companion in the chest instead.

'Motherfucker!' He shouts angrily, spittle flying everywhere.

The whole tavern is watching now, everyone having scrambled aside, a wide berth in the centre, and they are cheering Jaskier on. The two remaining mercenaries advance on him, vicious and snarling. Jaskier only grins slyly, smoothly evading their attacks, waltzing around the room as if he were at a ball and not this close to getting slashed by a sword. 

Geralt sips his ale, appraising Rowan and the other mercenary - a hideous looking man with several large burns on his arms and face. Their attacks are wide and uncalculated, fuelled mainly by anger. _That never ends well for anyone._

They spread out in an attempt to surround Jaskier, moving amongst tables and benches. The mercenary with the burn marks inches closer and Jaskier ducks behind a table, grabbing several mugs. He hurls them in quick succession, blinding the mercenary as ale spills over his face and eyes. The man curses as a mug bounces off his bare wrist with a dull crack, his grip on the sword involuntarily loosening. Jaskier takes advantage of the distraction and dashes up onto the table separating them, descending on the man in a smooth motion, using his body's momentum to deliver a brutal punch to the mercenary’s head. 

They crash to the floor, the mercenary’s head bouncing off the hardwood from the impact, and he goes limp under Jaskier, eyes dazed. Jaskier barely spares a glance at him before picking the discarded sword and gracefully pushing himself up, turning to face his last opponent - Rowan. 

They circle each other around the tables, swords poised, and Rowan grows impatient. He makes the first move, goes on the offense, pushes forward with a series of swings and thrusts. The clanking of swords ring throughout the tavern as Jaskier parries them all seemingly effortlessly, face cool and detached, barely breaking a sweat. The effect is strong - Geralt doesn't need his witcher senses to feel the growing frustration on Rowan. 

Minutes pass before Rowan steps back, red-cheeked and panting for breath. Jaskier gives him no time to rest - he closes the gap between them and lunges forward, feigning an attack. Rowan scrambles to block, sword coming up at an awkward angle. Jaskier aims a kick behind his knees and twists his sword in a maneuver to disarm Rowan, causing him to lose his balance and fall forward onto the ground. When he looks up, the sharp point of Jaskier's sword is glinting dangerously close to his face. 

‘Do you yield?’ Jaskier asks, face impassive. 

Rowan’s eyes flicker to his fallen comrades, to the hostile townsfolk looking down on him, to Geralt and then Jaskier. He clenches his teeth, a look of hatred flashing across his face. 

'Fine,' he spits. Few moments pass before Jaskier lowers his sword, tossing it away.

And then Geralt spots a glint of steel, barely shouts a _Jask-_ in warning before Rowan pulls out a knife from his boot and throws himself at Jaskier, aiming for his gut. Jaskier twists his body to the side, barely dodging the sharp blade. The knife catches on his open doublet instead, ripping through soft fabric. 

Rowan trips on Jaskier's feet, his momentum driving him towards the ground. Jaskier's legs get tangled and he is dragged down too, falling beside Rowan onto an overturned stool. Jaskier’s body hardly touches the floor before Rowan is already scrambling for Jaskier, springing on him with renewed vigor, wildy thrusting the knife in a frenzied attack. 

Both men roll about the floor in a rough scuffle, knocking into tables and chairs. Jaskier very nearly gets stabbed several times before managing to knee Rowan in the groin. He flips them over, rips the knife out of straining hands and plunges it into the struggling body beneath him, holding on with all his body weight until Rowan stops writhing and lays deathly still. 

Jaskier sits back on his haunches, panting for breath. The tavern is eerily quiet. His eyes rake across the hall, surveying the damage done - the limp bodies, the mugs and plates strewn on the floor, the stunned audience. He lifts a tattered sleeve to wipe the blood splattered on his face. 

‘Well,’ he says cheerily, to no one in particular. ‘That was messier than I expected.’ 

~

They help to clean up after, Geralt hauling the bodies onto a wagon at the back of the inn while Jaskier tidies up the dining area, picking up empty mugs and fallen chairs. Some of the townsfolk offer their assistance, and within minutes the tavern is in its usual order, save for some indistinct blood stains on the wooden floor. The innkeeper dismisses it with a laugh. ‘Give it a day - there’ll be more spilt ale than blood in that spot.’ 

Jaskier apologizes for the mess he’d made and the trouble he’d caused, but the innkeeper only ushers them up to their room, opening the door to a steaming hot bath already prepared for them, bars of soap and scented candles laid out neatly on the table. 

'Enjoy,' she says, with a twinkle in her eyes, and closes the door with a gentle click before either of them can so much as utter a _thank you_. 

The two men stare at each other in a moment of silence, before it is broken by Geralt. He reaches out for Jaskier, assessing him for injuries. 'Are you hurt?'

‘No, but my doublet is. Argh! One of my favourites, too.’ He shrugs out of the clothing, examining the rips and tears with a forlorn expression on his face.

‘I’m serious, Jaskier.’ 

He raises a brow. ‘When are you never?’ 

Geralt gives him a _look_.

An endearing smile appears on Jaskier’s face. He steps forward, gives Geralt a soft pat on the cheek. ‘Ah, Geralt, _Geralt_. You worry too much. I’m fine, really.’ He moves away to peel off his undershirt, peering at his abdomen. ‘Well, apart from a couple of bruises. The usual. Nothing a warm bath can't fix. I don’t recommend rolling around on the wooden floor, by the way. Not a very comfortable experience.’

‘Hmm.’ Geralt reaches out with his hand, gently tilts Jaskier’s chin to the side. ‘There’s a cut on your face.’ 

‘Oh. Will it scar?’

‘No. It’s a small cut.’ 

Jaskier clicks his tongue. ‘Shame. We could've had matching scars then. Wouldn’t that be interesting?’ Blue eyes flicker up to Geralt’s, a cheeky smile on his lips.

Geralt sighs, feeling as if he is talking to a particularly stubborn child. ‘You need to be more careful.’ 

'I am _perfectly_ careful, thank you very much.' 

Geralt opens his mouth to retort, but Jaskier cuts him off with a wave. ‘But enough of that. Come now, Geralt, stop worrying about me and take off your armour. I know you aren’t exactly uninjured yourself, after the fight with the vampire.’ 

Geralt complies with a grunt, shedding his armour with the help of Jaskier’s deft hands. It is his turn to be prodded at for injuries, and Geralt is briefly amused by this turn of events. 

Jaskier leads him to the bath afterwards, settling himself in it and motioning for Geralt to sit in front of him. ‘Jas-’ he hesitates, but Jaskier only gestures again, not willing to take no for an answer. Geralt obeys reluctantly, sinking into the warm water, a pleased groan escaping his lips. He feels the tension seep out of him as soft hands wash his back, gentle around the bruises and cuts he’d sustained during the fight with the katakan earlier. 

‘You purr like a cat when you’re contented, you know.’ Jaskier’s hands scratch lightly as his scalp, cleansing out the accumulated grime. _It’s pleasant_ , Geralt thinks, leaning his head against the broad chest behind him. The combination of the sweet herbal scent of chamomile soap and Jaskier’s fingers lulls him into a serene, tranquil state. 

Geralt purrs once more for good measure, a low rumble in his chest, exaggerated and drawn out. It elicits a laugh from Jaskier. ‘Oh my. Has the wolf turned into a cat?’

‘Mmm. A cat that will bite.’

‘Feisty.’

They switch places afterwards, Geralt keeping the water warm with a small blast of Igni. Jaskier hums a slow melody, scrubbing his arms while Geralt works up a lather of shampoo in his tangle of brown hair, piling the bubbles up high. Sword calloused fingers knead sore shoulders, drawing appreciative noises from the bard. It leaves a warm feeling blooming inside Geralt's chest, this sort of intimate domesticity. He savours the quieter moments like these, when it is just the two of them in their bath, helping each other unwind after a long day. 

‘What is it, Geralt?’ Jaskier asks later, when they’ve dried off, sitting on bed in their towels. ‘I can practically feel you dying to say something, as absurd as that sounds.’

Geralt doesn’t answer as he rubs salve on Jaskier’s bruises, pausing as Jaskier winces involuntarily. ‘You didn't have to do that, you know,' he says softly. 

Jaskier tilts his head in question before huffing. 'And what, let them pelt you with insults and glares? Not a chance.' 

‘I’ve dealt with worse.’

‘That doesn’t mean that you have to put up with it.’ 

‘I would, gladly, if it means you not getting hurt.' 

'Getting soft in your old age, are you?' Jaskier teases, but his voice takes a more serious tone when he grasps Geralt's hand. 'I can take care of myself perfectly fine, Geralt. This isn’t the first time I've been in a fight, or got hurt, or saved you from certain peril-' 

Geralt raises his brow in disbelief. ' _Peril_? That was hardly - ' 

'There were four armed mercenaries who were intent on spilling your blood, _darling_. Luckily for you I was there to get rid of them, all under a minute, myself unarmed, while you very helpfully sat there in the corner with your ale.’ Jaskier pokes his chest. ‘Believe it or not, I can hold my own in a fight. Now stop worrying or you'll get wrinkles over your lovely face.’

Geralt frowns, hands unconsciously rubbing over his forehead. ‘Fine,' he sighs. He clears his throat, looks at Jaskier. ‘Thanks for that. It was quite impressive, actually.’ Jaskier perks up, face lighting up in a wide smile. 'You have to work on your guard a bit though, you’re dropping it too low,’ Geralt adds, unwilling to inflate Jaskier’s already bursting ego. 

'A _compliment_? From _the_ Geralt of Rivia? Hah! At this rate, I'm going to be the one fighting all the monsters.' Jaskier jumps to his feet, launching into a series of complex footwork while punching invisible monsters in the air. Geralt thinks he looks absolutely ridiculous.

He snorts. 'I’d very much like to see you try knock a drowner out with a punch to the head.’

‘Well,' Jaskier spreads his arms dramatically, flexing his biceps. 'I work with what I have.' He winks suggestively at Geralt. 

Golden eyes rake across the muscled figure with an appreciative hum. ‘That's nice. You gonna seduce the ghouls too?’ Jaskier's expression morphs into one of absolute horror, and Geralt can't help the laugh that escapes his throat. 

'Melitele's tits, Geralt! Do you have to go there?'' 

Geralt only shrugs, grinning. He leans back onto the bed with a great sigh, his sore muscles finally getting some rest. 'I know a master blacksmith in Novigrad. Should get you a weapon, a proper one at least. A dagger.’ 

‘You do know that I _will_ use it to stab people, right? You can’t stop me from getting into fights this time.' Jaskier walks over to the bed, waggling his finger down at him. He looks uncharacteristically stern.

Geralt huffs in amusement, batting his hand away. ‘Fine, fine. As long as you don't stab me.’

‘No promises,’ Jaskier grins, eyes twinkling in mischief.

He yelps as Geralt tackles him onto the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I got so pumped at the idea of writing feral Jaskier until i realised that i actually had to write Jaskier in action and let me tell you action/fight scenes are HELLA HARD to write. I spent weeks trying to figure out four different ways to incapacitate the mercenaries (yeah im slow) while also making sure Jaskier didn't accidentally break the laws of physics or what not... 
> 
> Anywayy kudos/comments/feedback is appreciated! :))


End file.
